Short pause.

‘Now listen here, ya motherless runt O’ Keefe … I didn’t bring Niquita Sherlock into this world ta have her and yar guttery voice and yar bad habits knocking her off walls …’

There was no mention of anything or anyone being late.

Last Call.

‘Jim, hi, hello? Jim … ’tis Mags … were ya asleep? Sorry … look, I need ya to come in far a chat, quick like.’

Pause.

‘I knows ’tis the middle of the night. Morning like. Tomorrow will do …’

Sneeze.

‘No, I’m grand … just a draught in on me, I think … look, I’ve a huge favour ta ask … no, not me … Nick. She’s in bother … what ja mean what kind of bother? Women’s bother … yeah … yep … I know, I know … look ’tisn’t time for I told ya so’s … I know … but these things happens … will ya help? We need it sorted.’

Sneeze.

‘What ja mean how?’

Pause.

‘… Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean … Christ, it’s been a long night … Jim, I don’na need ya judging me too, so enough. Please. Can ya help or not?’

Babble.

‘What would ya knows about it? … Ye can just up and fuck off … Yar not left holding on to it … wondering where a roof will come from … or if ya’ll ever get yar life back. ’Cause ya don’na get yar life back. Ever …’

Silence.

‘Ah here … I’m sorry … I knows yar not that sort. But I’m afraid Jonathan O’Keefe … well … and God rest his lovely mam, but he’s a real bad egg.’

Pause.

‘Thanks … I won’na forget this. Thanks … but shir if I get up out of bed, I canny just up and lave … ya knows that … he’ll never come back … Lazarus …’ Margaret Rose laughed loudly and sneezed again. ‘I won’na get another chance … I’ve gone this far … OK, but ’tis hard ta get me on me own … Great … Thanks so much … I’m sorry … Great … They won’na let ya in till nine. Try then.’

Pause. Babble.

‘Just don’t bother me if you see visitors, ’K Jim?’

Pause.

‘Thanks … Look, I knows ya don’t … She’s yar niece … ’K … ’K … See ya … Night … But Jesus, not a word. Promise? Night. Byeebyebye …’

Click. Beep.

The familiar whirr of the laptop sounded at three a.m., put to its photographic-merry-go-round and soon after, Margaret Rose snored out as she held her phone tight in her right hand and close into her chest like the dead in coffins for ever left clutching rosary beads and photos of loved ones.

Chapter 8

Early Monday morning, Jim was back, sitting on Margaret Rose’s bed licking a large pink ice-cream cone that matched his shirt and cheeks.

‘I’ve it sorted, Jim,’ she said, as she emerged from the shower and waved the Nokia in one hand and swung her washbag in the other like scales of justice.